


Slice of Life

by this_is_not_nothing



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Pizza, just basically super soft flirting and a lot of cheesy carbs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25845598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/pseuds/this_is_not_nothing
Summary: David and Patrick visit New York and eat a lot pizza.This started as a thing I said as joke toswat117but the jokes on me because I ended up writing it.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 76
Kudos: 163





	Slice of Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swat117](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swat117/gifts).



> Thanks to [thegrayness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrayness/pseuds/thegrayness) and [popfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly) for being the best and Gray for the beta as always✨

“Where are we going again?” Patrick scoots over across the back seat of the cab and fits himself into David’s side.

“Greenpoint—I know, I _know_. It’s far and ugly and practically Queens, but I swear, the pizza is amazing. They have one with spicy soppressata and hot honey and the crust is so light and perfectly charred.”

“Is this the place that sounds like it could be on _The Sopranos?”_

“Yeah, Paulie Gee’s. It’s really good though. The wait shouldn’t be too bad, we should be there by—” David looks at this phone. “7:30. So we can have a glass of wine or whatever and then we should be able to sit.”

“Or whatever?” Patrick runs a hand up David’s thigh. “Is the men’s room that clean?”

“I’m too old for blow jobs in dim, dingy bathrooms in Greenpoint _._ We will _or whatever_ in the hotel room, like adults.”

“Adults who like to make a mess and need a shower after.” Patrick’s voice is matter-of-fact and teasing, all at once, and like always, it works for David.

“Yes, precisely those kinds of adults.” David turns so he can kiss Patrick, thoroughly and improperly, because David never wants to be so old he doesn't want to make out in the back of a cab.

Patrick pulls back, flushed. “I think we’re here David.” The cab is not moving anymore, stopped outside a nondescript wooden facade on an equally generic block. This part of Brooklyn lacks charm, David wishes he could have brought Patrick to a more charming neighborhood, but alas. Patrick runs his credit card through the machine, and then pulls David out of the warm cab and into the cold night. It’s just starting to flurry, big fat flakes that melt on impact, but it makes David miss New York—or at least the concept of New York. On nights like this, when it feels like a postcard, like he’s in a snow globe, New York always feels a little bit magical. He pulls Patrick in by his scarf, his cheeks already a little bit red, and kisses him again, because he _can_ , a quick thing, an _I love you_ , before he grabs Patrick’s hand and pulls him toward the door. 

The decor has never been David’s favorite, but the vintage Coke machine is cute enough. Between the dark, pervasive wood and the overly dim lighting, it makes David want to turn around and leave, but the smell of pizza convinces him to stay. Miraculously, there’s no wait, and they get settled at a table, menus, and a matching set of manhattans following.

“You should pick the second pizza. The Hellboy, despite it’s ridiculous name, is non-negotiable. You're gonna love it.” David takes a sip of his drink, which is delightful, and watches as Patrick reads the menu, his brow slightly furrowed.

“Seem pretty confident about that choice.”

David holds up his hand, adorned with the simple band that matches the one on Patrick’s hand, wiggling his fingers a little. “Yes, well, I have excellent taste.”

Patrick smiles at him and grabs his hand from across the table. “Do you want a classic or something that could be on a Food Network special—there’s one with brisket and pineapple?” Patrick takes a sip of his drink too. “God, we have to start making cocktails at home, we could be having these all the time.”

David nods. “We should—you would look good shaking us up a round of drinks. And really, anything you want to try is fine.”

“Well, the Monte Cristo has maple syrup and the bacon of our homeland, which is tempting, I think I'm leaning toward the Cherry Jones.” Patrick takes another sip of his drink before reading off, “Fresh mozzarella, Gorgonzola cheese, prosciutto di Parma, dried Bing cherries, and orange blossom honey. We can have a spicy-sweet thing happening. ”

“For our first date, you took me out for freezer burnt mozzarella sticks, little did I know you had such a refined palette.”

“Well, for our first date you _knew_ was a date, I took you to that cafe Heather recommended,” Patrick teases, but it has no bite. A waiter appears then, appropriately tattooed and surprisingly earnest, and praises their choice, which always makes David feel good even though they’re being paid to say things like that to the customers.

Two glasses of wine replace their cocktails and two perfect pizzas arrive shortly after that. David can’t help it, he pulls out his phone for an overhead snap, accidentally catching the edge of Patrick’s hand in the frame, which is somehow even better.

Patrick takes a slice of his choice, and immediately takes a bite despite the steam rising off the cheese, his eye going wide. “This is really good, David. So good. Also, hot. But, I want to get pizza like this all the time.”

“Well fortunately for you, I have a lot of pizza scheduled in the next week.” David grabs a slice of the Cherry Jones and Patrick was right, it is so _so_ good. The gorgonzola and the dried cherries and the prosciutto all work together, salty and cheesy and sweet. 

Patrick finishes his slice first, and moves onto the pizza David insisted on, and David watches him take his first bite. Patrick smiles and nods, groaning a little. “How is this so good?”

“I don’t know, but it is.” David takes his own bite then, and closes his eyes. This pizza is just as good as he remembers it being, the perfect amount of cheese. The hot honey and the spicy soppressata work together, the crust airy and delicious. When he opens his eyes, Patrick is looking at him, grinning. “What?”

Patrick leans over, brushing his thumb against the side of David’s mouth. “Had a little something right there.”

“Oh. Thanks.” David whispers it, but he can tell by Patrick’s expression he heard David, despite the din of the restaurant.

They finish the pizzas like that, watching each other’s blissed out face, grinning over bites of pizza. David pays, and Patrick orders them an Uber and then they’re back out on the sidewalk in the snow. 

Patrick pulls David in for a soft kiss. “I’m glad we’re here. I like seeing you here.”

“I like you seeing me here.” David kisses him again, snowflakes cold on his cheeks, Patrick’s lips warm against his.

**

The pizza tour accidentally continues the next night, with drunk slices at Joe’s after a very happy hour—hours, really—with Alexis. A slightly reheated, perfectly crispy, very cheesy slice always tasted better after several drinks. The plan had been Stonewall for a few drinks, then Tacombi for tacos and a very good avocado tostada, but then Patrick’s face lit up at the non-descript Jazz bar next door to Stonewall, that David had probably walked by a million times. He looked so hopeful that David had kissed him until Alexis protested and then the three of them went in and drank and listened to surprisingly good music until the idea of waiting another minute for food was beyond them, so they walked a few blocks to Joe’s and ate slices off paper plates in the street.

There was a night at Motorino which included Patrick giving David a frankly obscene look when he bit into the brussel sprout and pancetta pizza. David smirked, a little _I told you so,_ because Patrick had been complaining the whole walk over, insisting tiny cabbages on pizza were just wrong. 

After, Patrick insisted they go to Veniero’s because Marcy told him she saw it on Regis and Kelly a few years ago, and David wasn’t about to say no to cannolis. They took a few cute selfies in the glow of the neon sign, and another one in front of the pastry case, and then David took one of Patrick mid-bite, knowing it would make Marcy smile.

**

On their last night in the city, David drags Patrick to Brooklyn again, this time to Carroll Gardens, which at least looks the part of Brooklyn, brownstones lining the streets.“I can’t believe you’re making me eat more pizza.” Patrick teases, taking a sip of wine from one of Alexis’s travel mugs.

“I can’t believe I married someone who complains about eating pizza.” David shakes his head dramatically, even though he can’t stop smiling at the idea that he’s here, with his _husband._

“I can’t believe I’m married to someone who waits in line.”

“To be honest, I can’t believe I’m a person who _waits_ on line. But trust me—this is the best pizza in the city.”

“But that’s what you said about DiFara.”

“No, I said that was the most _iconic._ Chatting with Domenico DeMarco while he clips basil and drizzles olive oil onto your pie is an _experience_.”

“Ok fine, yes. It was. But that crust was burnt.”

“It was _charred._ I’m not having this fight again, it didn’t stop you from eating half of that pie.”

“All this walking makes me hungry.”

“Mm, sure, and definitely not what we did at the hotel this morning.”

Patrick bites his lip and David can’t help but lean forward and kiss him, because he wants to—to make up for all the times he wasn’t sure his kisses would be welcomed.

“What was that for?” Patrick asks.

“You _know_ what that was for.”

“You liked that, huh?” Patrick’s voice drops a little, and David feels his face flush at just how much he liked _that_ this morning.

“I—yes. Very much.” David whispers, as if anyone could know what they’re talking about.

“Well—noted.” Patrick sounds a little smug, and honestly, he should be.

Finally, _finally_ , the hostess appears, stern, with a clipboard and yells “Patrick, party of two” into the dark, brownstone-lined street.

“That’s us!” David grabs Patrick’s hand and pulls him toward the door.

The room is a warm, rustic shade of creamy yellow and the chairs are a mis-match of worn wood, the kind like all the best osterias in Italy have. They get seated at a table angled near the wall, so they end up sitting on adjoining sides, not across from each other, and are tucked away from the door, bathed in the warm glow of the pizza oven. 

David looks around the room and things about how much has changed since the last time he was here. He thought he would miss travel more than he does, and while the scenery in Schitt’s Creek leaves a lot to be desired, it’s been a relief to stop searching for locales to make him feel whole.

The hostess is actually much friendlier than her severe librarian vibe led on, and she cheerily opens their BYO wine and signals for some glasses and menus to be brought over. She looks at the bottle, “Oh this is a good one—particularly this year.”

David nods. “It’s my husband’s first time here,” he says, as if that explains anything. It’s not even a very expensive wine. Patrick’s hand settles on top of David’s, warm and comforting and familiar.

“Welcome to Lucali, I trust you’re in good hands.” She winks at Patrick as she pours his wine.

“Very good hands, thanks.” Patrick gives said hand a squeeze, and David flips his hand over so they can lace their fingers together.

They’re on their second glass of wine when their pizza arrives, accompanied by a small calzone. “Leah said your husband shouldn’t miss this on his first time here,” their waiter explains. 

“Tell her thank you.” 

“Thank you so much.”

The waiter smiles. “Enjoy!”

“I’ve never actually had this.” David cuts them each a slice of the calzone. Steam curls out of it and long strands of cheese stretch all the way to their plates when David serves them. “It was hard to find people to have dinner with.” That’s the understatement of the century, but Patrick will know what he means. David suddenly realizes he’s been dragging Patrick to a series of places he wished he had been happy.

“I’m glad you brought me here.” Patrick gives him that look that makes him feel like he’s been thoroughly kissed—warm and pleased and loved.

The calzone is amazing and the pizza is perfect. This is really is the best pizza in the city, it’s why David saved it for last. It’s crispy, but not too crispy, with the perfect amount of sauce and cheese so good David swears it must be flown in from Naples. David can tell by the way Patrick’s eyes flutter he’s very impressed. Getting a sex face from Patrick for food is very rare, and David feels victorious every time.

“You like it.” David doesn’t even bother to make it sound like a question, and Patrick just nods and takes another bite of pizza. 

“This is—do you think Ivan can make pizza like this?” Patrick reaches for a second slice the minute he’s done with his first.

“God, that would be the dream.” David is torn between wanting to savor every bite and a legitimate fear Patrick will eat the entire pie before David is finished with his first slice.

The hostess swings by the table. “Do you like the calzone?”

Both of them nod enthusiastically, hurrying to chew their bites. Patrick finishes first. “Yes, it’s incredible—thank you so much.”

“My pleasure.” She gives the table a little tap and then is off to yell another name into the abyss of the dark street.

David grabs a second slice and much to his relief Patrick decides to have more calzone, giving David a chance to keep up. “Beyonce and her husband love this place. They used to close it down sometimes so they could have dinner here.”

Patrick pauses with a bite of calzone halfway to his mouth. “Really? That seems kind of extreme.” 

“Honestly, no one should be worried about getting surreptitiously photographed while eating this pizza. It deserves your full attention.” Patrick hears this as an invitation to be insufferable and next thing David knows, Patrick snaps a picture of him right as he bites into his slice.

David tries to glare at him, but the pizza is too good. Patrick takes another picture and then David confiscates his phone. “Okay enough of that.”

David looks at the photos and—he looks fond and happy and in love, no trace of a glare at all. He shakes his head and sends them to himself, he wants a reminder of how happy he was tonight. Patrick leans over and kisses him, his mouth salty and warm and faintly tasting of basil.

Full of entirely too much pizza and in the back of a cab, because David wasn’t about to ruin this perfect evening with an insufferable wait for the F train, David snuggles up next to Patrick for the ride back to the hotel.


End file.
